


Pack Matters

by aldiara



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many letters between Alpha and Omega. Sometimes Erica despairs of ever finding the one that suits her, them, anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pack Matters

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what the werewolf policy on condoms is but frankly I don’t think they can be bothered. Let’s just assume those super-wolfy super-healing powers take care of potential STDs and unwanted pregnancy, kk?

There are things about pack – about being made into a pack rather than born into it – that Derek doesn’t seem to understand. Erica gets this, or thinks she does; it must be so hard to explain to an outsider the things that have been running through your veins since birth. Things like control, instinct, knowledge of the wild – no wonder he stares at the three of them with furrowed brows, frustration oozing from him like a scent, rank and offensive. It must be like trying to explain breathing.

Still, it scares her badly, this lack of understanding, the way he huffs and squares his jaw and eventually stalks off after an aborted training session, with none of them even knowing how they failed him this time. What scares her even more is the thought that as he made them wolves, so did they make him leader, and neither of them seems to be doing a great job of it. When she’s alone, or only hunting with the boys, she feels a wealth of questions bubble to the surface: good questions, solid ones, the kind that would help them all to learn, to grow. But when they’re with Derek, when she can smell that thin but pervasive scent of disappointment, the questions jumble and shatter in her mind, much like she used to think her bones would shatter from the force of her fits.   
Erica hates that, the nagging feeling that the sickness still has power over her; that it has snuck from her limbs into a far more vital part of her, her very thinking. Ever since Derek turned her, she has revelled in the feeling of power over her body, her muscles, tendons, bones and curves; what good is any of that if her mind still lies exposed?

She shivers – not from cold – and feels Boyd shift closer in his sleep, grumbling reassurance without even noticing he does it. It’s hours before dawn, the last day of the full moon, and they’ve curled up in a long-abandoned cabin near the edge of the forest. Rot festers in every ancient board of wood, the smell of decay rich in their noses. Erica doesn’t mind it. Like the three of them, this hut is somewhere between civilisation and the wild; though man-made, it exists in peace with the forest. Derek went his own way early in the night, as he so often does, telling them to be careful and not kill anything that will be missed. Erica doesn’t know exactly where he went, though she suspects it has something to do with the Others – Scott and his ragtag half-pack of humans. Werewolf politics, inter-pack relations. Relations that they’re not a part of, apparently. She spent all of ten seconds feeling offended at Derek’s exclusion before the tug of the moon – weaker now than on the last two nights, but still strong enough – wiped her mind clear of petty offences and pulled her deeper towards the forest’s heart, the scent of prey strong in her nose, the boys close on her heels but not as fast as she. 

They ran through most of the night, the squeal of dying prey a blur in their minds, but now, at rest, Erica can taste the various kinds of blood and flesh. The flavours emerge as distinct as different scoops of ice cream – bird and rabbit, deer and badger; sinew, muscle, bone and blood. The badger was old and stringy and did not die easily; his meat was less succulent than the others’ by far, but sweeter for the fight he gave them.

Erica shifts restlessly; she knows she needs the sleep since it’s a school day tomorrow, but so far she hasn’t managed more than a fretful doze. This doesn’t feel right. Their alpha should be here, sharing in the satisfaction of their kills, small as they might be. Dim instinct tells her they should have been howling their triumph to the night sky together, the first song her due, as their only female. She feels worse than ignored; Derek’s careless abandonment seems like a betrayal _. Go play, pups, while I tend to serious business._

She doesn’t understand him any more than he seems to understand them, and she feels that lack deep in her core, like sly tendrils of wolfsbane rooting in her heart, poisoning her from within: _This is wrong._

Beside her, Boyd stirs again, more alert this time. Sensing her distress, he presses close against her back, lips moving near her ear, questing softly, “Erica?”

She murmurs something reassuring even though she knows she can’t lie, not to him or Isaac. They know the scent of each other’s lies better than the scent of prey.

Boyd grumbles in response, unconvinced. His hand sneaks around the curve of her waist, warm palm tracing her ribs through her shirt. Across the width of the room, eyes open suddenly, their amber glow sharp and alert. Isaac has been sleeping separately from them lately and that, too, feels wrong.

Erica sighs and turns into Boyd’s arms, stretching against him. Like her, he is still half-transformed, cheeks fuzzy to her touch, teeth strong and pointy when he seeks her mouth. He smells of blood and musk, and when she reaches down, she can feel his hardness pushing eagerly into her hand through thin cotton. It’s another lesson they’ve had to teach themselves because Derek would never have thought to mention it: loose clothing on the full moon, sweat pants and t-shirts, nothing they can’t afford to rip or lose. It comes in handy.

Need takes her fast, a wave of hunger almost more intense than the other kind, the need to slash and rip and feed. They’re at each other’s mouths, more biting than kissing, and she arches into him, grinning as she nips at his full lips. Boyd’s hands slip under her shirt and find her breasts; she gasps as he circles the nipples, making them harden into his palms. She pushes into Boyd’s hands, into his mouth, cries out when he ducks his head to close his lips over one nipple and sucks hard, rolling it between his teeth, rasping over it with his tongue. Her hands are already shoving his pants out of the way and she hears him whimper when her fingers slide down his cock and further back, cupping his balls, then back up the shaft again, tracing the veins, smearing the wetness at his tip. He feels lovely and familiar in her hands, so silky, so eager, so alive. She wraps her hands around him tightly, luxuriating in the sense of power, understanding; this knowledge of another person’s body that she never had, before, when she couldn’t even control her own. 

She slides out from under him and rolls them around before he can even protest. She wriggles out of her own pants, then uses his shoulders for leverage as she straddles him in one fluid motion. Boyd’s breath hitches at the sudden heat of skin on skin, but then he bares his teeth at her. One arm stretches around her hip, muscles bunching to roll her back under him. Erica snarls back and tightens her grip on his cock in warning. He sucks in his breath and stills under her fingers, pulsing, eager despite the threat of pain – or even more because of it. Erica doesn’t let up until she feels him give in, settling under her, his hands warm on her hips and his throat exposed as his head falls back slightly. She goes for it, nipping along the soft tissue between the powerful muscles of his neck. She tastes sweat, a smear of rabbit blood, the faint residue of aftershave. Boyd shudders, hands shaking slightly as he cups her breasts. They’re right in his face in this position, heavy and tender, and Erica can’t help the hoarse moans escaping her mouth as he fondles and kneads them. His palms circle over and over her enflamed nipples, fingers occasionally tightening on them, twisting the swollen nubs until she writhes against him, grinding down on the sharp protrusion of his hipbone, getting him wet.

A niggling sense of awareness tugs her head to the side – a sound she can sense, too soft to be heard. Isaac is still watching from across the cabin, curled up by himself. It bothers her. She calls out to him throatily even as she rolls her hips against Boyd’s, one hand curled around his cock to rub it against her clit, coating the throbbing head with wetness. She teases him, sliding him up and down without letting him enter yet, until he’s bucking under her, gasping _“please”_ and _“fuck”_ and _“god, just let me,”_ all interspersed with wordless snarls.

She wants to but she’s distracted by Isaac, the way his lips have parted and his tongue is swiping his teeth as he watches them. His eyes are still locked with hers when Boyd’s hand joins hers between their thighs, fingers sinking deep where she’s wet and ready, and she can tell the shift in Isaac’s scent when she clenches on Boyd’s fingers, hips pushing down, drawing him in deeper. Isaac smells like desire and despair, and so alone, even in this room, with both of them. Erica hates it. She calls his name when Boyd’s cock pushes at her, the hot, damp tip of him positioned just right; cries it again when she sinks deep, taking him in, and no one else but them could understand this, surely; no one else would get the need to call out one boy’s name while she’s fucking another, clenching around the pulsing length, loving the feeling of power and fullness and heat and sharing.

Boyd gets it, though; incomplete they might be, but they are still pack. Together with hers, his gaze shifts, seeking Isaac’s; they half-keen, half-growl together, and she can see, even in the dimness of the cabin, how Isaac’s lips draw back further from his teeth, can sense how his pulse speeds up, pumping heat towards his groin. Erica feels herself open wide, body and mind and pack sense all together, reaching out for him desperately. She’s done this with him, and with Boyd, but never all of them, and never the boys together. She can feel the lack of that stretching back to the beginning, connecting to that constant sense of _missing_ that she has with Derek, and her cry when she twitches and clenches and comes hard, feeling Boyd swelling and growling and spilling into her, carries both release and loss. She clings to him, sinking her fingers deep into his shoulders; her claws are out but he makes no complaint. 

This is another thing Derek doesn’t understand, perhaps the most important thing: pack that isn’t born pack needs to form bonds other than those of blood. She remembers how he dismissed her when she first tried it on him, the only tie deep enough to rival that of family. He thrust her away, accused her of childish games, and mocked her feeble attempt to forge them closer. The humiliation branded her more permanently than that first impact of his teeth. Later that night, she’d taken it out on Isaac, more fighting than fucking, leaving them both with bleeding marks that healed before they even truly showed. Sometimes she loathes that, too: she’d rather keep her scars and wear them proudly, but the wolf in her won’t let her. 

With a few final, exhausted thrusts, Boyd slumps beneath her. Erica lets herself follow, enjoying the breathless up and down of his chest and stomach, sweat-slicked skin, the pulse she can feel pounding through every vein, right down to his spent cock twitching one last time inside her before it slips out, trailing come.

His lips move against her forehead, but the name they form isn’t hers. “Isaac,” he murmurs, the second syllable pitched like a question, and even through the sense of release, Erica feels the tug of distressed unfulfillment, and peeks through her messy hair. 

Isaac is slinking towards them, half-crouched, half-crawling, his lanky frame so skinny in the moonlight that it almost hurts to look at. Erica’s torn by the need to run back outside, to hunt under the last, waning moonbeams for fat and blood and muscle, anything that will make him smell not so vulnerable, not so terribly bereft.

The other need is stronger, though, and they can all feel it. Boyd’s head lifts under her, softly growling something between challenge and invitation. Erica stirs, reaching out; she can sense the confusion, the almost-anger on Isaac, but gives it no chance to thrive and pull him back away from them. She cups his face, tracing his sharp cheekbone and the light pulse in his temple, then runs her fingers up into his unruly hair and pulls him down, claiming his mouth. Whatever misgivings he may have, he kisses her hungrily, running his tongue along the inside of her lips, then twining it with hers. She feels him stiffen slightly when Boyd’s arm, rather than hers, draws him in, and she makes an impatient noise into his mouth. _Boys_. They are pack – what can human conventions matter? 

Still, she remembers all those times when she was human, all the ordinary days that she made ordinary moves to be an ordinary girl, and failed. Let someone copy her maths homework, share her lunch, faithfully keep a secret that she witnessed; it never mattered, never was enough. She was invisible to them if she was lucky. 

She wishes that she could forget it all, but at the same time is absurdly grateful, absurdly understanding of this stupid human-ness, this reluctance to let go of what you know. Derek doesn’t get this, because Derek never was just human. Even with werewolves, though, there are many letters between Alpha and Omega. Erica took Ancient Greek, in place of French or anything useful, so she knows them all. Sometimes, she despairs of ever finding the one that suits her, them, anyone.

It is because of this that she kisses Isaac more gently than she wants to, that sense of lingering humanity, so forlorn, so utterly anchorless. _It’s okay¸_ she tries to say into the kiss, into the pack sense, _it’s okay, we don’t know more than you do, but we’re here with you._ And it’s with the same gentleness that she rolls on her back, pulling Boyd with her, transferring Isaac’s lips to his with that same sense of reassurance. She doesn’t know if it’s her or simply instinct taking over, but the boys’ lips meet with a curious lack of struggle. There’s none of the snarl and bite and blood she half-apprehended, as if the dominance they were supposed to fight for is something they’ve already ceded, unspoken and uncontested, to her. 

She still has her hand in Isaac’s wild curls, and now runs the other along the nearly-smooth curve of Boyd’s head; she can feel hands along her ribs and flanks and shivers, deliberately blanking out the knowledge of whom they belong to. The boys are panting into each other’s mouths, and she can hear and smell them kissing: wet, needy noises, traced sharply by the ever-present tang of blood. 

Their bodies feel very different to her questing hands – Isaac all angles, long and limber like a greyhound, ribs stark and familiar against her palms, while Boyd is solid muscle, smooth and rippling, like living marble moulding to her touch. He growls softly, teeth out, as he cups Isaac’s nape, pulling him closer into the tangle of their sweaty limbs, and Isaac makes a noise in response – not refusal exactly, but wary, holding back.

Erica runs a hand down his back, feeling each knobby protrusion of his spine, and then encounters Boyd’s hand on his hip, cupping and soothing, coaxing him closer. She slides both hands between them, hears two answering moans – _so different_ – when she finds their cocks, brings them together, squeezing, teasing. Isaac’s is full and straining, drops of precome slicking her fingers, while Boyd is only half-hard but swells steadily into her touch, trapped between her palm and the soft groove where Isaac’s thigh meets his groin.

Their mouths mingle blindly now, tongue against tongue and lips, all eagerness, and Isaac slips awkwardly between them, thrumming and needy now, all caution abandoned. The pack-sense pervades all, full of heat and power and rut-knowledge, their sweat under her hands, and the thick fullness of their cocks. Something will have to be decided about logistics, she guesses, only it happens even as she thinks it: Isaac sliding against her, his cock heavy against her belly, full balls brushing the inside of her thighs, and Boyd rising up behind him, lips tracing the ridges of Isaac’s shoulder, hands busy between his thighs. Isaac stiffens for a moment, and Erica wraps her arms and legs around him, her fingers trailing down between his buttocks, finding the ring of muscle hot and twitching under her hands. Boyd’s cock is sliding up and down his crack, almost reassuring but really not, and Erica kisses a hot, damp trail from the corner of Isaac’s mouth to his ear, whispering to let it happen, that it’s okay, this is how they’re supposed to be, pack, all three of them, that this is _so right_. She feels him relax to her fingertips, feels him open up just as he probes against her, and she moans because she’s still tender from earlier but oh, he feels so good, sliding in just right, and then there’s a moment where he tenses and Boyd whines, gasping an apology, muscles trembling. Erica wraps her hands around Isaac’s buttocks again, cupping and spreading and searching; god, Boyd’s cock is still wet, still wet from _her_ , and she can’t help reacting to it, arching up against Isaac, and then he groans against her mouth and suddenly everything _fits._ Boyd thrusts forward, supporting his weight on his hands, atop both of them. Isaac cries out in response, pushing inside her, and then they move together, so seamless it shouldn’t be possible, surely. She can almost sense the kisses and nips Boyd delivers to Isaac’s back and nape while Isaac sucks on her swollen nipples, making her whimper and pant, and all the while this beautiful rhythm, back and forth, _“fuck, yes,”_ someone whimpers and she doesn’t even know who it was, only knows that she can _sense_ how tight and delicious Isaac feels, like she’s fucking him herself, sinking Boyd’s cock deep into clenching heat, buttocks pumping, balls smacking wetly against Isaac’s own even as he surges up inside her, making her wetter, making her burn up and twitch and lose herself completely.

Someone kisses her, sloppy and desperate. She opens her eyes to meet Boyd’s dark-gold gaze, his tongue hungry and breathless in her mouth, one arm wrapped tight across Isaac’s collar bones, anchoring him between them. He’s constantly growling under his breath, while Isaac is just panting harshly, each gust of air coming out like a sob as he rocks forward into her, wet and slick, then rolls back into Boyd’s steady thrusts. He, too, opens his eyes, turns his head into their kiss: again that brushing of three tongues, clumsy but just what it should be, sharing it all.

She has noticed early on that Boyd seeks the wolf when seized by passion, while Isaac invariably turns human, golden eyes shifting to hazy blue. She doesn’t know where she ranks herself on this variable scale, what her eyes or jumbled transformation instincts are doing right now. All she knows is that she’s rarely felt this much joy in herself, both out of and in control; that she’s rarely felt so real, so beautiful, so _herself_ as just now when she knows her make-up is smeared with blood and her hair a tangled mess, her limbs bent to the point of breaking with the strain of trying to draw out the building swell of another orgasm, holding back as long as she can. She’s pulsing and breathless and sweaty and it feels _so good_ , Isaac’s weight atop her, his eyes completely lost to what’s happening between them. She gives voice to the feeling, arching luxuriantly, delighting in how every line of Isaac’s face tightens, his mouth shaped into a gasping, senseless ‘oh’ while Boyd’s teeth fasten on his shoulder, his hips pumping fast now, buttocks straining under Erica’s clawing hands. She pulls hard, forcing him deeper inside Isaac, and Isaac lets out a long, keening sound, twitching and bucking atop her. Boyd comes violently, arms wrapped around both of them, with a last desperate growl; Erica can feel his come oozing down Isaac’s crack, mingling with Isaac’s as her own thighs relax. She touches it, cupping their emptied balls and coating her fingers with sticky wetness as she traces the aftershocks of their twitching muscles, then lifts her fingertips to her mouth and sucks the thick, salty fluid from them. Her own delayed climax comes slower, in waves, one rising on top of the other, making Isaac moan breathlessly as she clenches and releases around his softening cock.

Boyd lets go of his own weight when he comes, resting fully atop Isaac and her; after only a few moments, Erica grumbles and heaves, muttering “Off.”

They comply bonelessly, Isaac tucking his head against the curve of her neck and shoulder, Boyd pressed against his back, wrapping his arms effortlessly around the both of them. Isaac’s bony angles should surely be uncomfortable but somehow he fits perfectly between them, exactly where her and Boyd’s hands meet and lace on his heaving ribs.

Outside, the sleepy call of early birds finally announces the coming of dawn, but right now, Erica doesn’t care about the paling of the moon or what manner of werewolves they are. They’re pack, that’s enough.

Someday, she thinks, already half asleep, sated with the scent and taste and textures of their mating, someday she’ll find the words to explain this to Derek, and never mind the jitters and confusion of her thoughts, never mind the things she only half-comprehends. If they’re to last, someone will have to make him understand, and she thinks that someone will have to be her. 

Perhaps tomorrow.


End file.
